Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
It was the end of the month of Ramadan, and the feast of Eid Al-Fitr was upon the town of
Kom Ombo.
Two days after a fitful night at Osama's farm, we had reached Aswan - but I had already
had my fill of the city and didn't plan on staying long. Lingering only to ditch all my camp-
ing gear and all my other redundant pieces of kit, I crammed everything into an old British
Army issue desert satchel and set off. I was about to embark on a different kind of journey.
The path from Aswan to Alexandria would be a thousand miles of roads, towns and cities;
it was no longer snakes and scorpions I'd have to watch out for - it was internal politics
and secret police.
By the end of the second day, I had come fifty kilometres along the river, to find that
Turbo had already booked me into a guesthouse at the town of Kom Ombo. Famous for
its great temple, dedicated to the crocodile god Sobek - protector of ancient men from the
powers of the Nile - Kom Ombo was originally the ancient city of Nubt, a 'City of Gold',
and it was as a centre of trade into Nubia that it had originally made its name.
In the morning, I woke to find Turbo standing over my bed. A squint at the clock on the
wall told me it was not yet 5am, and outside Kom Ombo was still smothered in darkness.
Usually, we tried to be on the road by 7, but today was special. It was formally the end of
the month when Muslims around the world fasted. Turbo was bouncing energetically from
wall to wall. It was time, he told me, for us to eat.
Blearily, I got out of bed. Naturally, I hadn't been fasting throughout Ramadan - and
neither had Turbo. It wasn't until this very moment that I'd even considered he might have
been Muslim, let alone one who prayed.
'It doesn't apply if you're
ala safar -
a traveller,' he said smiling.
The police escorts who had trailed us up the road from Aswan had taken advantage
of this particular loophole too - sneaking a crafty cigarette or sweet
chai
whenever they
could. I supposed Turbo was not so different from those Christians back home who only
went to Church for weddings and Christmas - all he wanted to do was make an effort.
'Come on,' he said, 'let's go and join in morning prayers . . .'
How could I resist?
In Kom Ombo, the local sheikh welcomed us warmly as we followed crowds of men into
the open courtyard of the town mosque. About half the men wore traditional
jellabiyas
,
and the other half Western dress - just jeans and T-shirts. Turbo was very much in the lat-
ter camp. Around us were young men and old men, many proudly wearing a dark bruise
on their foreheads from striking their heads on the floor of the mosque during prayer. 'It's
called the
alamit el salah
,' Turbo whispered. 'The mark of prayer. Or, if you prefer it, a
raisin
. . .'
